


The Magic of Christmas

by Nadzieja



Series: Christmas Stories [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a composer, But Aziraphale will make it better, Christmas Eve, Christmas Story, Crowley hates Christmas, Crowley is a pianist, Crowley is rich, Crowley plays violin too, Dreams, Happy Ending, I Walked with you Once Upon a Dream song, M/M, Magical Realism, Musicians, The magic of dreaming, They met in a dream, They met once but Crowley doesn't remember it, This Christmas will change that, Very brief instance of angst, but there is something missing in his life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja
Summary: Crowley's dream has come true - he is an acclaimed pianist and has everything he could ever want from life: fame, money, women, men…  no commitments, no obligations and no one to hold him back. But is he truly happy? Could his life look any different? A dream he has once falling asleep on a hotel couch while watching telly and eating yesterday's chips might answer these questions...A Happy Christmas Piece!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Christmas Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064207
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91
Collections: AntiChrist-mas Zine Collection





	The Magic of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I have written for the [ Anti-Christmas zine ](https://theantichristmaszine.tumblr.com/) and I'm very excited to finally post it!  
> It's a slightly longer version, since the zine had 2,3k word limit, but there were a few additional scenes I really wanted to include:)
> 
> I worked in collaboration with [ @artemona89 ](https://artemona89.tumblr.com/), who drew amazing art for this story ❤️ (it's in the text)
> 
> Also big thank you [ brinjal ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinjal/pseuds/brinjal) for beta'ing this work for me and for all your brilliant suggestions. It really made this piece so much better. ❤️

Crowley wakes up to a mind splitting headache that’s exacerbated by loud jingling coming from outside. It immediately reminds him how much he hates this festering, alcohol-soaked, glitter-polluted bog of fake cheer and wasted effort. Christmas.

This year, London has really made it a point of honour to hammer down its cheap holiday mess down everyone's throats. As if the string of tacky Christmas piano concerts he is contracted to play isn't torture enough.

Not that he should complain. Thanks to a few hours of torment every year, he has everything he could ever want from life: fame, money, women, men… no commitments, no obligations and no one to hold him back.

His fingers flutter in the air on an invisible piano - he knows all the Christmas songs by heart, he can play them with his eyes closed and have a conversation on the side. It's simply below him.

His hand moves, unconsciously, to detangle his long curls he hasn't brushed properly in a while. He groans and saunters into the kitchen for a breakfast of microwaved chips and oxidised wine.

A moment later he is splayed on the couch, staring at the telly, adamant on drowning out the noise and before long, he dozes off.

It's difficult to say how long he's been out of it; enough to wake up shivering and with a crick in his neck. Cursing, he unfurls from what appears to be an old, stained blanket and realises that the cold doesn't come from a forgotten window, no. It's all encompassing. He blinks out at the busy streets.

_What the hell’s happened?_

He reaches for his mobile and calls his hotel, then the philharmonic hall, then his manager, but for some strange reason they all seem to pretend not to know him.

What a stupid prank. 

Exhausted after forty straight minutes of yelling at everyone and everything, he looks down at his old violin, just as his stomach starts rumbling.

He settles on the only option at hand: playing his violin at strangers on the street, god, how degrading. But it should be easy—he's not only an amazing pianist, but also a first-class violinist. This _thing,_ whatever it is, can't last forever… can it?

Confident, he pulls out of his memory the most complicated compositions - the ones that made people notice him back at the London Music Conservatory. Surely even an uneducated passersby can appreciate - if not fully understand—Paganini, Shostakovich and Beethoven, right? 

Wrong. 

The longer he plays, the more the reality of the situation crashes down on him—almost no one stops, and those who do, only do so out of pity. It infuriates him even more. Once he gets to the bottom of this tasteless joke, someone is going to pay for it.

Resentful, cold and humbled, he leans forward to count the change, and then _finally_ , he hears clapping. Crowley raises his eyes to see a blond man, roughly his age, dressed in a highly outdated outfit. He could swear he's seen that face before somewhere.

"That was magnificent, dear boy! 24 Caprices, not everyone can perform that."

24 Caprices is indeed a stupidly difficult piece; it was Crowley's signature move back at school and something he thought everyone should know. But now having been proven wrong, he feels new appreciation toward this man who not only acknowledges his talent, but also slides a _note_ into his violin case. 

"I'm afraid you might be better off playing songs closer to the spirit of the holiday, " the man continues and Crowley's face falls.

"I hate Christmas," he snaps, trying not to shiver. A chill ravages his spine in earnest now, one that gets straight to the bone—his stupid leather jacket gives barely any protection.

"Oh dear, you're cold! You have been playing here for a long time. Here—" Without delay, the man takes off his own coat and pushes it onto Crowley's frozen shoulders. 

He feels ridiculous in it, but the offer of warmth is too good to refuse.

"Ngk."

"Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

Crowley nods, desperate for any kind of respite. The sun is already low on the horizon—a golden halo around the man’s pale hair—and he still hasn't found a place for the night. 

They only make it two blocks down the road when the man puts a key into a small blue door.

"Uh, angel?" Crowley settles on a first nickname that comes to his mind. "When you said 'cup of tea' I thought you meant a _café…_ "

"Oh! _Oh_ ." The man turns pink and Crowley isn't sure if it's because of the nickname or the implication, but seeing him fluster like that does something to his insides. "I do apologise, it's rather... well. I live so close and tea is horrendously expensive here, besides they have no cocoa… You are under _no_ obligation to accept my invitation…"

Crowley smirks. "Do you often invite strangers to your house?" 

The man's expression rapidly goes from perplexed to smug. "Hardly, dear. You might not remember me, but we studied at the same conservatory. Besides, it doesn't cost anything to be kind."

Crowley feels all blood draining from his face. "What? No, I'm sure I would remember—"

"Would you now?" The blond's gaze is challenging. "I was a year below you. My name's Aziraphale, in case you're still trying to figure it out." This is the moment the doors open and Cowley is relieved he doesn't have to answer.

Inside the flat is small, but cosy. Books in varying stages of deterioration lay scattered across every surface. Crowley's eyes wander until they fall on something familiar that brings comfort at last.

"You have a piano!" Crowley beams at the sight of the baby grand. In an unlikely event that he dreamed up his whole career, this makes him feel that not everything is lost. He will climb his way up if he has to. "May I?"

"By all means, dear." 

Crowley sits down on the bench and starts playing. He doesn't recognise the composition in front of him. It’s bloody difficult, but that never stopped him before.

"This is crazy good. Who wrote it?"

"Me, actually…" Aziraphale blushes, setting two steaming cups of tea on the coffee table.

"What? Why don't you play them yourself? You could be famous."

"Ah, I don't think a life like that would suit me. Besides I can't anymore; I fell off a ladder and broke my wrist. I tried pitching my compositions to a few performers however, but that didn't exactly work out either." 

"They're idiots," Crowley supplies without a shred of hesitation. He can recognise real talent and right now he's staring right at it.

Aziraphale releases a huff of laughter. "That’s nothing to say of the way you play. I wish your life had worked out better." 

Crowley only grunts in response. His life _had_ worked out better, or hadn't it? He thinks he's going mad.

"Do you have anywhere to spend Christmas Day, my dear?" Aziraphale asks between sips of tea.

"Well, no, but that's okay. It's just another day to me."

Aziraphale tilts his head. "You know, even if you don't believe in any kind of higher power, it can still be a magical time to spend with your family or friends."

Crowley sighs, he knows how this goes. Once again, someone’s trying to convince him to ‘enjoy Christmas’ and once again he’s going to end up looking like an ungrateful arsehole. It's not that he doesn’t want to be happy _._ He just… doesn’t feel it.

"Yeah, I don't believe that either. Some guy in red trousers tells people to rejoice for no reason whatsoever."

"I know what you mean. Christmas gets easily distorted when its focus is put on the superficial." Aziraphale says looking down at his teacup and Crowley gapes unflatteringly back at him feeling a shiver running over his body, his stomach clenching pleasantly. This might be the first time he feels _heard._ "But I also think it's what you make of it that matters. Why don't you… join me? This year?"

The shock on Crowley's face is obvious. The offer is nothing to scoff at, certainly not in comparison to sleeping on the streets, but he hates being indebted, especially when he's broke. Aziraphale must have seen through this, because he adds cheerfully, "you can play the piano for me as payment."

* * *

Not only does Crowley play the piano, but he also helps out in the kitchen. To no little surprise of his own, he manages to follow a couple simple recipes for stuffed dumplings and a salad. 

Aziraphale's family and friends turn out to be simply _lovely._ There's his very colourful sister Tracy and her cranky husband Shadwell, his close friend Anathema with her boyfriend, and a bunch of kids. Crowley had always liked kids, at least before he stopped having friends. When did that happen exactly? He can't remember.

They talk and drink, play games and laugh. Crowley hasn't felt this kind of warmth in a long time.

"I hope you enjoyed it at least a little bit? I know the kids can be a little rambunctious." Aziraphale says once all guests are gone.

"Are you kidding me? They were brilliant, Pepper's such a smart kid! And Adam! So creative! You have the perfect family."

Aziraphale's lips curl in that polite smile he does, when he disagree with something. "It's not that simple, unfortunately. We’ve stopped inviting our brother Gabriel. He didn't approve of the noise and… other things, but that's just how life goes. Nothing's ever perfect, but I like to think there's certain beauty in the imperfect too."

_What's that supposed to mean?_

He wants to ask, but Aziraphale smiles more honestly now and Crowley nearly melts. To distract himself he reaches for the music sheet on the piano and starts to play.

"I don't recognise this one," Crowley says touching the keys lightly. It's a soft, melancholic song that starts slow and crescendos into something stronger by the end, something important. Something momentous.

"No, I- ah, I composed it overnight." Aziraphale looks at him from the kitchen island, blushing as if he’d committed some egregious criminal act.

Crowley flicks his gaze towards the man curiously. "What is it about?"

Aziraphale leaves the dishes in the soap and the suds, takes off his yellow rubber gloves and wanders over to sit on the bench next to Crowley. He's so close they’re almost touching and Crowley realises he's holding his breath.

"Christmas magic and a chance encounter that could change your life." He whispers near Crowley's ear making fingers falter on the keys. His gaze shoots up to Aziraphale, but the man's eyes are already fixed on something else.

"You have beautiful hands."

There is a moment of silence, during which Aziraphale's palms clasp and unclasp, and then he's reaching out to-

_Oh Lord._

Crowley watches, transfixed, as his fingers are lifted by Aziraphale's own manicured hands and to his lips. The kiss is feather-light, barely a brush, but it makes the butterflies in his stomach flutter mercilessly.

Why does he feel like he's known the man for years? They’ve barely spent any time together. He pushes through that tightness in his throat, cheeks burning and looks down to the notes, the song is still unfinished.

"How does it end?" He asks quietly

Aziraphale smiles mysteriously once his gaze reaches Crowley's. "I don't know," he whispers with an unsure smile and walks back to the kitchen as if nothing happened at all and all Crowley can do is stare after him, paralysed.

That night, when he falls asleep on the couch under a tartan blanket, he realises that he’s not all that desperate to go back to his previous life anymore.

Maybe he could make a new home. 

Here.

* * *

The next day Crowley wakes up _without_ the crick in his neck. His hands reach out to grab at the fluffy tartan, but there's only harsh linen and hard furniture around.

His eyes shoot open to see the hotel's impersonal space: the telly still flashing through scene after meaningless scene, the minimalistic couch, a magazine from which his own stupid face grins in a fake smile.

Back to being as famous as he is lonely.

A groan escapes him and he covers his head with a pillow, wishing he were dead. Nothing has bloody changed, so why does he feel like dying? It was just a stupid dream he had because he passed out on the couch and stuffed his face with too many chips.

Somehow, he makes it to the philharmonic hall in time, and onto the stage to a burst of applause that doesn't mean anything to him. But as soon as he sits by the piano, he notices a cloud of blond hair and the beige coat he felt on his shoulders not that long ago. In the dim light of the theatre, he cannot make out Aziraphale's expression. They're on opposite sides now. 

This is when it strikes Crowley—they _have_ met before. Crowley is one of the performers that _rejected_ Aziraphale's compositions without even looking at them. He is, indeed, an idiot. 

The whole theatre is quiet now, the conductor and musicians waiting for him to start the piece that's printed on the sheets in front of him.

But there is another melody in his mind, and when he touches the keys, his fingers move on their own. He pours his heart and soul into the song: it's melancholic, but unyielding, a story filled with returning warmth, a happy ending.

The ovation once Crowley finishes his piece feels endless. Hopeful, he looks at Aziraphale, but the man is already moving through the rows and towards the exit. Panic grasps Crowley's heart. He excuses himself off the stage and rushes off past the flurries of questions from all sides. 

At last, he catches Aziraphale in the lobby.

With heart in his throat, Crowley closes the distance between them, but the man turns around abruptly and speaks first.

"Mr Crowley! Marvelous performance. That song was really something." Aziraphale gives him a polite nod and Crowley feels all the breath escaping from his lungs. What did he think was going to happen? That he’d kiss the love of his life, sweep him off his feet? For all the man is concerned, Crowley is just a stranger.

"The song… yes, thank you. I, um, I heard it… in a dream." He starts off cautious, gauging the flickering expressions in Aziraphale's eyes.

"And what, may I ask, the dream entailed?" 

Crowley notices the man's eyebrows drawing together, the struggle to stay calm. "I dreamed that someone, uh, dear to me composed it, and I haven’t been able to get that melody out of my head since."

The man just nods in stiff understanding, though he looks like he is suffocating and Crowley wants nothing more than to take him into his arms, let him melt into the embrace. "Will you excuse me, I—"

"Aziraphale, wait!" Crowley pleads, his heart is thudding wildly. He's desperate and he’s pretty sure he’s about to do something really stupid. "You compose, right? In the dream, that song I played today—"

"I composed it for you," Aziraphale says and it's not a question. Crowley must look ridiculous with his mouth open, because Aziraphale's eyes crinkle with a smile and he continues. "I, ah. It appears I've had the same dream." 

Rush of emotions passes through Crowley _,_ once the meaning of the words sink in _,_ with one being the most prominent - hope.

"But that's-"

"Impossible?" Aziraphale says, his eyes crinkle in a smile. "That's the magic of Christmas for you."

_That bastard._

On this side of his dream, Crowley has made a lot of stupid decisions and has to face the consequences of his actions, but there's still time for this one to turn around. There's still hope.

" _Angel,_ would you… spend Christmas with me?" 

Crowley offers his shaking hand and Aziraphale takes it, beaming.

"My dear, I thought you'd never ask."

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complete piece, but there will be a loosely related explicit second parter (one year later) :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr - [ @teslatherat ](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If you liked this story, you might also like [ Until ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020178) which has similar magical undertones with a happy ending (A Kate & Leopold AU) :)


End file.
